


were my lover a comet

by notbecauseofvictories



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, First Time, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 23:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13492401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notbecauseofvictories/pseuds/notbecauseofvictories
Summary: Han, Leia, and the five first times there weren’t (plus the one there was)





	were my lover a comet

**..yavin.**

This would be an easier story to tell if he’d been drunk. If they’d stumbled together in the frantic aftermath of the Death Star, giddy in their temporary immortality (the fear it wouldn’t still be there, come morning.) It would have been easy, a story told a hundred times before, too much cheapshit ale and a beautiful girl he doesn’t deserve, flushed and smiling, at him,  _at him_ ; one night of pretending he was worthy of her. It’s an old story. Older than the stars.

But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t—

He’s sober and so is she, though the way the sunlight filters through the viewports—retracted, to let in the rain-washed air—is headier than it has right to be. Luke had left, something about sabacc with Antilles; but it’s easy to stay here, with her, lazing in the warmth of her rooms and teasing her for how serious she looks, bent over her datapad. Occasionally, she reaches for something on the desk; instinctively, because she always looks up when she can’t find it, shakes her head as though chasing away a thought.

He wonders what used to sit on her desk on Alderaan. He wonders if he can ask, or if that’s impolite, reminding a girl her planet is dead.

Really he just likes watching her, the graceful economy of her hands, the way she touches her mouth sometimes, checking on her lip. (Her ‘war wound’—she’d worried at her lower lip all through the battle of the Death Star, torn it open. It still bled when she smiled.) He’d tell her she’s beautiful, but he gets the sense that she’s heard it before, though maybe not quite the way he means it. He imagines princesses get called ‘beautiful’ like paintings or vases do, not ‘beautiful’ like women, like her, like the nape of her neck and her lip, bleeding.

Likely there’s some royal bantha-fucker out there who’s promised her hand in marriage, but there’s no harm in Han looking in the meantime.

“Stop looking at me like that, Solo,” she says then, like she can hear him thinking it.

He grins, letting his head fall against the back of the chair. The Massassi left every inch of the stone carved, back when this was their temple; the ceiling of her quarters is the coils of a monstrous snake, swallowing a planet. Han hopes it’s not this one. “And how exactly am I looking at you, princess?”

He doesn’t think he’s heard her laugh before. She should do that more often.

“You’re funny, Solo.”

“I am kriffing hilarious, Your Worship, but you haven’t answered my question.”

She scoffs. “I wasn’t raised in a tower. I know what that look means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“…you’re not going to make me say it.”

“I would also accept a practical demonstration,” Han offers generously. His grin is wasted on the carved ceiling.

“Oh, suck on a gruntling.”

The laugh is startled out of him this time, and he can’t help looking—she’s smiling too, or as good as, her eyes warm and on him. He swallows. “I’m impressed, princess, that was almost a real curse.”

“Almost?” she protests.

“Yeah,  _almost_. Now…” He makes a show of considering his options. “‘Go fuck yourself.’ That would have been a real curse.”

She lifts her chin imperiously, and it’s dangerous, how much Han likes it when she does that, the way her eyes go hooded. “I was worried you’d take it as an invitation,” she says, slowly and carefully. “And the custodial droids get so upset about…fluids.”

There’s got to be at least a yard between them—her behind the desk, him in the chair, maybe a yard and a half—and there’s something new and trembling in that space, warm in the air. Han’s a little worried to mess with it or even look at it straight, in case he spooks the thing. It seems friendly.

“Nah, princess, that’s not an invitation,” he tells her. Her eyes are dark, and when he smiles, they follow his mouth. He clears his throat. “Now ‘fuck me’—that’s an invitation.”

…or, he could just walk up to that newborn thing and grab it by the scruff of its neck.

All the imperiousness vanishes from her face in a moment, replaced with wide eyes and a shock that makes her look very young. Han grits his teeth against a follow-up—there’s pretty much no good way to take back  _fuck me,_  not the way he said it.

Lando had warned him about that, ages ago. Han always showed his hand too early.

“See,” Leia says into the silence, and her voice is soft. “Knew you couldn’t make me say it.”

Han forces himself to look back up at the snake swallowing a planet which may or may not be this one. “Well,’ he says, and then stalls out. His voice rasping and uncertain, even though it’s just the two of them here, witness to Han’s stupid over-eagerness, what Lando always called his readiness to fall in love. (He was probably right, Lando always had a bad habit of being right when it came to Han.) 

Han’s still looking—up, at the carved snake, the planet in its coils—when Leia settles on his splayed knees. The white-ish dress of a senator rides up on her thighs when she straddles him, and Hand doesn’t know what to with that information. Not when he invited her, not when he said  _fuck me_ with that much sincerity. 

“Well,” she says, her dark eyes lingering on his mouth.

Han lets out a shocked little breath, looking up at Princess-Senator-Commander Leia Organa. She’s young—as young as Luke, and Han had fucked him guilelessly, under the impression this was just a dumb farmkid with pretensions of greatness. It was strange now that there was…promise of  _actual_ greatness, the Death Star-killer, Jedi power lurking in his blood. (Han thinks of Lando again suddenly, wonders what he saw when he looked at rangy, hungry eighteen-year-old Han Solo, an orphan desperate for passage off-world; if he thought once or twice, if he considered how  _young—_

But Han knows Lando from long ago. He knows Lando considered it, and dismissed it, because sometimes youth was just hunger, given shape. And that was to be respected.)

“What are you doing, princess?” Han asks idly, letting his hands come up to cradle her waist. She’s balanced on his knee, grinding into his thigh absently, and that’s dangerous; the cant of her hips, the way she’s looking at him. Like he’s something that can be owned. Used for more than a fuck or a quick job, like she can buy him for the Rebellion she loves so much with a quick hot press of her mouth, or a tumble, and Han is—many things, but he’s in this for the  _money_ , all right—

“I’m seducing you,” Leia announces, finally. Han hisses in a breath through his teeth. Her hips feel small and round in his hands, spanned by his fingers. She’s trembling, he can feel it against every place they touch.

“Oh, are you?” he asks, as lightly as he can manage when she’s so warm, and heavy against him. “Well, all right. Seduce me.”

She hesitates, then tentatively curls a hand around his neck, like that’s—

It shouldn’t work as well as it does. It absolutely shouldn’t. (It does.)

“Okay,” Han says shakily. Her hand is very hot at his throat, and he blinks to try and clear his vision from the hazy  _want_ that’s flooding his veins. “You ready? Cause get ready, princess.”

Her mouth hardens. “Go on, then, Solo,” she says, and he laughs aloud even as he cups his hand over her breast—she’s wearing too many layers, he thinks dizzily. He shouldn’t be doing this in the late-afternoon sun of Yavin, when any minute Luke could burst in and demand they join in his sabacc game with Antilles—when Draven or Mon Mothma could be here and shatter the moment—except there’s no one. It’s just them, him and her, playing this dangerous game.

He kisses her, first. Then he palms her stomach, feeling it swell and flatten with every breath. She’s so fucking  _warm;_ he thought Alderaan was a snowy planet, all mountains and chilly noblesse, but she’s warm and wet, especially when his hand slips down, past the folds of her white, white senatorial gown and into her pants, properly.

She  _jerks_ forward when he touches her, a howl caught between in her throat. “ _Warn_  me,” she snaps, enough that he feels the press of her teeth against the shell of his ear. 

“You like it,” he says, softening it with the touch of his mouth at her cheek. She eases into his touch slowly, when he presses his fingerpads against the soft skin of her labia. A kind of signal-flare:  _I am here. I mean you no harm._

“Hey,” he says. “You with me?”

“I’m here,” she breathes, and he thinks he’s imagining the little hitch in her voice, like she realized halfway through she  _is_. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He’s terrified by the smallness of her, how much of her skull fits in his palm, her wrists waiting to be swallowed up by his hands. She makes a little noise when he digs his thumb into her clit, and Han almost misses it, that’s how loud his own pulse is in his ears, matched by her half-sobs and ragged breathing. Everything feels outsized; him and her, with him being huge and horrible, needing the press of her skin even if it’s wrong, and her so fragile, fine. A clumsy creature handling Chandrillan china, except the china is breathing, and hot, and when he drops his head and sucks at her throat she makes the sweetest noise he’s ever heard, something high and sharp and  _needing,_ without knowing how or why.

(I could fall in love with you, he thinks, and is horrified by it, tucks it away quick in some place in his skull he never ventures, where he keeps the tragedy and trauma, and this too, how much he wants this.)

He teases her with his fingers until she’s wetter than any girl he’s ever had, not quite drooling but slick and hot at every angle his fingerpads reach. “You ready, princess?” he asks, smirking against her shoulder, and she just makes an angry cat-like noise, her hips grinding down on his thigh.

They fumble through the first through strokes, her wincing, eyes screwed shut—“It’s okay,” he says, but she shakes her head, a jerk of her chin. 

“I can do this,” she grits out, and he forces himself still, lets her settle herself around him. He thinks of grav-ball scores and that one time he’d seen Chewie’s knot, and not how tight she is, or how afternoon Yavinese sun paints her in soft golden curves. (He wishes he’d asked her to take off her shirt, or unbutton the standard uniform far enough that he could see her tits, mouth at her nipples through the thin fabric of her breast band. It would be nice, he would make it nice. Her Highness, her Worship, and he could worship her. Like this, with him, and not whoever she’s thinking about in the secret chambers of her heart.)

He can tell when she’s ready; she drops her forehead against his neck, and her legs stop trembling. “Okay,” she says. “Han, okay.”

He keeps his first stroke shallow, testing, and he feels her tense. “Hey,” he murmurs, and her ear is so near his mouth that he leans forward, tugs at her earlobe with his teeth. She laughs, soft enough that all he registers is her exhale of breath. “You can lead,” he murmurs, like it’s a concession and not something he’s thought about, or wanted. “C’mon, Your Worship. Show me what you like, okay?”

He swallows a sad whine when she pulls back, but a moment later she’s sinking down on him again. It’s a different angle, he feels it—hotter, but not as tight. “Like this?” she murmurs breathlessly. Her arms around his neck, hot and sweaty at the palms, the crook of her elbows. It’s humanizing, somehow, to think that she’s not any more perfect than he is, than any human he’s been with. Just a girl, trembling and hot. “Can we…?”

“Yeah,” Han says, and when he thrusts forward, she makes a noise as sweet and destructive as a Death Star, but better because she’s so fucking  _hot_  and soft and within the reach of his arms. (He’s never fucked a princess before, but this is—what he would have imagined, sweet skin and something tentatively discovering, pleasantly astonished that you could be this animal and survive.)

“That’s good,” Leia says, sounding surprised. “Yeah.”

It’s slow until he almost can’t bear it anymore, but she’s already moving faster, anticipating him and whispering,  _faster, come on, come on._ He’s already delirious with her; he’s gone, he’s not sure how he lasts as long as he does, except he wants to see her fall apart first. 

She’s so quiet when she comes, he almost misses it; just a sharp breath and then she’s taut against him, eyes screwed shut and her fingers digging into his shoulder. He can feel the bite of her neat, rounded nails.

“I’sokay,” he mumbles against her jaw, a curl of her hair stuck in his mouth and he’s delirious, spice-addled, working a hand between them, just to touch her, just a little. He wants her to say something—proof of life, proof she’s here with him and not fucking some other lucky bastard in her head. “Come on, sweetheart— _Leia,_ Leia. Come on. Come on, princess.”

He thumbs at her clit and her hips jerk—she lets out a strung-out noise, like a sob, like his name in her throat, and that’s it for him, he’s done, he’s gone. “Oh,” he can hear her say dimly, when he finally lets his head drop to her shoulder, fighting for breath as he shudders with the aftershocks of it. “Oh.”

Afterwards, he watches her plait her hair again, tracing the slope of her bare shoulders with his eyes and wondering what it is he’s done.

 

 

**..hoth.**

All he wants—

It’s late. There are only a few hours of daylight at this point in Hoth’s solar cycle, and Echo Base doesn’t have any viewports to see them through, but ‘late’ is a universal constant and it’s happening right now. Han can feel his eyes itching with it; the grey, scrambled tiredness sinking into the cracks in his brain. It makes things loopy and soft, like someone’s unfocusing the world. All he wants, all he really wants, is to be horizontal on a surface that does not smell like wet tauntaun, but she  _won’t stop yelling._

He doesn’t even know what she’s yelling about anymore, it’s just noise.

She looks tired too, he thinks. They’re all tired these days, pale and choking down vita shakes to make up for the lack of sunlight, cold fear gnawing at their guts as the Empire draws nearer, chasing them from base to base. Luke’s lost enough weight to have carved new notches in his belt, and Han’s always restless, more and more each day, roaring like a trapped thing and sulking when Chewie roars back.

Leia has dark circles under her eyes, like bruises.

Later, he won’t be able to say why, except that her mouth was so near, and he was so tired.  

She keeps yelling at him, all through the kiss, biting Han’s mouth in reproach, shoving him back against the wall. (He sucks in a breath through his nose, the cold sinking through his gear and into his skin, except for where her skin is, against his.)He lets himself be greedy, his hands wandering down her shoulders and brushing the sides of her breasts through her flight suit, down. His fingers curl into her belt loops, trying to pull her even closer, trapping her between his legs and holding her there.

“You gonna keep me warm tonight, princess?” he asks when she pulls away a little to catch her breath. She snarls, and he is officially disastrously nerve-burner for this girl, because Princess Leia Organa growlingat him isn’t funny at all; it is, in fact, the least funny thing that has ever happened in his entire life. He wants to growl back, he wants to know what other noises he can wrench from her throat, guttural and heated like that.

She scrapes her fingernails through his hair, and he hopes it aches tomorrow.

“You’re not even— _kriffing fuck_ —angry at me,” he grits out as she sucks at his throat, leaving what will probably be a godawful love bite tomorrow morning. “It’s not my fault Mothma won’t give you some stupid assignment, as though—”

“Do you ever stop  _talking_?”

“Oh, that’s real rich coming from you. Surprised I get a word in edgewise when you get going—”

Her mouth went tight and pinched. He wanted to bite it open. “At least I—”

“Yeah? At least you what, highness?”

“Ugh,  _Maker,_ shut up!”

He wants the bruises she’ll give him. “Make me.”

(He has to stop showing all his cards.)

Her room is closer than his. Mostly, he remembers how the pillow smelled of her hair, how warm she was after, tucked into the curve of his body.

**..the falcon.**

They manage until third week.

It’s been a long time since Han went without a hyperspace drive—he’d forgotten how much  _space_ there is in the galaxy, all that blackness falling away behind them and more ahead, and nothing to do in the interim but dance around one another in the  _Falcon_. If anyone was around to see, it’d probably look like some sort of perverse Imperial waltz—Chewie and Han moving past each other in the corridor silently, changing partners every few hours to keep anyone from dismantling Threepio in a blind rage. Leia and Han circling one another in ever-tightening rings, clinging to stiff politeness in the galley.

(They don’t talk about the kiss.)

They manage until the third week, until a shouting match in the mess turns into Han  _shoving_ he up against the cabinets, turns into Leia fisting her hand in the collar of his shirt as she yells at him. Her hips are flush against his and her mouth is  _so close,_ Han is only human—he figures this is his last chance, his only chance, so he kisses her like it. 

He’s only mostly shocked when she kisses back.

They stumble back to his bunk in a furious tangle, half anger and half whatever else is between them. It’s like arguing, but with tongue. She bites at his lower lip, and he digs his thumb into her hip hard enough to leave bruises. He brushes his knuckles against her half-exposed breast, lingering to make her shiver all over; she gasps against his jaw, and when she mouths at the skin beneath his ear, he groans, grinding his hips against her leg for some sort of purchase, the friction he craves. 

They don’t fall into bed, because falling implies gravity, and not the frantic, ungainly desperation of two people shedding their clothes as quickly as they can. Han hasn’t wanted anyone with all-consuming, eclipsing desire since Lando, and Leia hasn’t wanted anyone like this ever. (Luke doesn’t count. Luke is—he doesn’t count for either of them, somehow.) This isn’t about Luke or Lando though, this is about the press of flesh on flesh. What they do defies gravity. It is the opposite of entropy, the creation of somehow more energy. Kinetic and frantic and when Leia straddles Han, wearing nothing but her regulation grey underwear, it is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

He wants to fuck the Rebellion, he wants to be good despite a lifetime of being otherwise, and she’s a shortcut. He’s in love with her, and that’s not fair, to be in love with a girl and an idea at the same time.

“Come on,” he says finally, digging his fingers into her hips and pulling her up, towards his shoulders. When she gives him a startled, uncomprehending look, he grins. “Trust me, princess. I’m good at this.”

“Dangerous,” she murmurs, and he’s not sure which part she’s referring to.

He starts out slow, the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric of her underwear. Her knees tighten on his ears, her breath coming in little gasps—she’s hunched over in the bunk, gripping handfuls of his hair so tightly he dizzily wonders if there’ll be blood. This is the least comfortable way to do this, but it’s the closest thing he can imagine to losing himself in her, once he peels the fabric down her legs and gets his mouth on her properly.

She’s sensitive, honed and trembling like a string, her whole body jerking when he tongues softly at the folds of her labia. “Shh,” he breathes into the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she actually  _whines_ , which Han is ranking up there with that medal they gave him in terms of personal achievements.

He paints the inside of his eyelids the color of her, wet and red, just in case he forgets. (He’ll never forget the way she says his name, wrung out of her like a sob as she comes.)

He smooths his hands over her thighs as they shake, breathing through his nose until she settles. Finally, with agonizing slowness, she slides her knees back over his shoulders to either sides of his chest, moving down his body to straddle his hips. He can feel how wet she is, soaking through the fabric of his pants, and he’s forgotten how good it is to be light-headed and warm and weighted-down, listening to someone else’s breathing.

“You don’t…you don’t have to,” he says thickly as she fumbles with his fly. He jerks a little when her hands brush his dick through the fabric and his voice is hoarse when he says, “Leia, it’s. It’s okay.”

“I want to,” she says. He almost misses it in her hand curling around his dick, the uncertain twist of her mouth as she keeps it there, canting her hips forward and rising up a little—

He’s never been a believer in anything he couldn’t put his hands on, Luke’s Jedi shit be damned. But here, now, he could be convinced of any higher power you like—just watching her sink down onto him, bracing her forearm against the too-low bulkhead while working her bottom lip between sharp, neat teeth. 

(He wants more than anything to show her how, to make it good for her, but she’s got that  _look_ , the stubborn one, and he’s learned not to get in the way when she goes flinty like that.)

“Fuck,” she grits out, like she’s trying that out for the first time too, and he huffs. “Well, that  _is_  the idea, sweetheart.”

She actually laughs, her mouth softening like he’s the first person who’s ever made the stupid joke, and he decides he hates them—every single fumbling boy who ever touched her and didn’t taste her or make her laugh, who didn’t think of it, selfish noble pricks—

He doesn’t realize he’s saying this shit out loud until she reaches down, rests a hand on the curve of his stomach. “Shut up, Han,” she says softly, her eyes screwed shut as she moves that last agonizing inch, punching the air out of his lungs. 

She’s so kriffing wet.

“Han?” she breathes, her eyes still screwed shut and her mouth a little slack. Her hand is still flat on the curve of his stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out and settling his hands around her trembling thighs. She makes a soft noise. “Show me how you like it, okay? Can you—please, Leia, can you move for me?”

She gives a little abortive roll of her hips and Han grunts, suddenly forgetting the mechanics of breathing, what comes after an exhale. Her hand follows his stomach as it hollows, as he sucks in a breath. “Mhm, Leia, that’s—that’s—gods, you’re so good, Leia—”

He can tell when she finds the angle and the rhythm she likes, because she starts fucking herself in earnest, fucking herself on him, and it’s been a while. It’s been a really long time and three weeks of strained waltzing around her, his hand the only comfort he indulged in, which is probably why he comes too soon—

Afterwards, she laughs in the back of her throat as she kisses him. He can feel her smirking. “Fuck off,” he mumbles against her mouth, but there’s a too-cheerful thrill of shame that runs down his spine. (This is the dynamic that defines them: he is below her, unworthy and wanting despite that; her, moon-faced and lovely above him, smirking,  _sure_. He wouldn’t know what to do with all this excess wanting if he couldn’t spend it at her feet, hoping that the desire made up the difference.)

He sleeps in the timeless blackness of space, with her cradled in the crook of his arm. Sometimes he wakes up, and despite the warm weight of her against his chest, he assures himself this is fine. He feels nothing for her but a kind of affection, the rapport of two soldiers staving off death, enough to excuse a kiss and a fuck, but mostly nothing. She is not in love, he is not in love. He knows—

—he feels nothing.

**..cloud city.**

He takes her wrists in his hands and pins them above her head, the transparisteel window cold under his knuckles. “Don’t look down,” he murmurs into the shell of her ear, chuckling when she makes a frustrated noise, trying to twist herself out of his grip, exert a little control. “Careful, princess,” he taunts. “You might fall.”

“I’ve done—all my falling,” she says, her voice catching when he lowers his mouth to her throat, presses his lips to her pulsepoint. She means  _in love_.

He means other things, like out of it.

He fucks her slow against the viewport, all of the sky spread out behind her.

**..jabba’s palace.**

His sight clears enough to see how she keeps her hands curled in tight fists all the way back from the sarlacc pit. He watches her try to loosen them once, standing at the railing of the speeder—but they’re shaking badly and she immediately curls her fingers back in, burying her nails in her palms. Lifts her chin, sets her mouth.

Her expression is smooth and cold as durasteel when she catches him looking.

Han’s not surprised when they get back to Jabba’s palace to find it empty and looted. (Say what you like about your average goon, but a goon knows when to get the hells out of town. And he definitely grabs whatever he can carry, on the way out.) They amuse themselves for a while, wandering from room to room and seeing what’s been left. Luke has his arms full of scavenged bits of hardware—he handed his lightsaber to Lando, who’s been holding it like it a live ion bomb and keeps throwing Chewie hopeful looks.

Chewie hasn’t seen them, too busy walking close to Han and churring wordlessly, petting Han’s hair.

Still, Han keeps—

Leia’s quiet. She’s quiet trailing after them and quiet responding to Luke’s occasional asides. She’s quiet as she wrestles a robe out from under some Force-choked body, just to cover up the idiot costume Jabba put her in. Her hands are shaking even fisted in the broadcloth, and they’re still shaking when Han falls behind a few steps, and catches her by the wrist.

“Hey.”

She glances at Luke and Lando’s retreating backs, then something about her seems to ease. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Fine, fine. Been working so hard for your Rebellion, it was nice to get some time off, catch up on my sleep,” Han drawls, and is pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch.

“I meant your eyesight, nerfherder.”

“Oh, that’s fine too.”

He’s lying—it’s still sort of blurry, darker around the edges. But it’s enough to see when she steps towards him, and it’s enough to know where to put his hands, when she presses herself against him.

When she kisses him it’s violent, all teeth, sloppy in trying to forget too much in his mouth. He lets her, lets her push him up against the wall, keeps his hands chastely at her waist; hers are shaking where they touch him, curling into his clothes, his hair, as though scrabbling for purchase, something to anchor herself to.

Han’s never been anything but a comet, an object in motion, but if there’s anyone he wanted to drag through space with him—

“I want you to fuck me,” she mumbles against his jaw, and the air leaves his lungs like he’s been spaced.

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, those words out of her kiss-bruised mouth, some dead man’s robe gaping to show the cantina girl getup beneath. Han’s imagined this a hundred times, dreamed of it even in carbonite, but it had always been  _her_ , burning and brave and sure. Not whatever this is, whoever she’s trying to be instead of scared, with bruises at her throat.

“No,” he says, very gently, trying for  _‘someone who loves you’_  in fewer syllables _._

She freezes. “What?” she demands. It’s not angry or wounded, just panicked, her hands shaking when they come away from his skin. “After three years, you don’t…”

“No!” he says, desperately grabbing her hands back, cradling them to his chest like an apology. “No, I just—I don’t…I don’t want this to be the memory,” he says, because he’s an idiot, and can’t think of the other arguments, the good ones. “You’re a—I want it to be better. Not here. Not—like this. I want it to be good. Do you understand?”

Her mouth is pink and chapped, when it opens, and Han exhales shakily, hoping not to hear—

“Okay,” Leia says. Her jaw is clenched tight, and he wishes this were…something else, somewhere else, and not the ugly orange of Tatooine’s suns on her face, the hard-scrabble awfulness of so much sand and slavery. This is where Luke came from and Han can respect that, having clawed up from ugliness himself. But Leia is a princess, she’s something—soft and hard and brilliant at once, clean and terrible as a vibroblade, and if Han is going to fuck her, he’s going to try for making love and all it’s stupid romantic echoes. He wants a world where that’s possible, somewhere softer and loving and kind.

Somewhere with trees. He’d like to see Leia dappled by the green shadows of trees.

“Okay,” Leia says, and when she leans forward and kisses him, he’s satisfied she knows. Understands, the insane thing he’s trying to say. ( _I love you,_ but not as—that was so destructive and fragile, war and love and—

He does love her. He knows she loves him. That’s what make it all so awful.)

“Okay,” Leia says, and then her hand is sliding down his stomach and slipping past the band of his trousers, and Han  _chokes_ —

It’s not the worst hand job he’s ever had, because he was a stupid randy kid in a back alley at one point, and nothing beats that for lack of quality. But it comes close, and he swallows a curse. “Princess, I love you, but you’re going to take the skin off,” he grits out, trying to slow her hand, just to get her gentle.

She shoots him a  _look_ , and he almost laughs, she’s so offended. Honestly, it’s sort of a relief to find something she’s shit at, puts him in better company. “Lick your palm,” he offers. “If we were doing this properly, I’d have something better, but we’ll—what are you doing?”

“It properly,” she says, so matter-of-factly, going to her knees on the hard-packed earth.

If Han had any follow up questions, he doesn’t get a chance to ask them.

He  _chokes,_ all of his skin suddenly heavy against his insides, more aware of the inside of her mouth, of her lips and tongue, than he is of any inch of himself. She hollows her cheeks, sucking curiously and his breath catches; when he manages to exhale, it’s a moan. (It’s so much, too much, like the carbonite but in the opposite direction, death by muchness, all that overwhelming heat and light of her enveloping him.) He reaches out with shaking fingers to touch her hair—doesn’t want to force her, doesn’t even want to try, just wants to know where he ends and she begins, and maybe this will help, the fragile line of her skull under his hand.

He just manages to warn her (a breathless “ _shit,_ I’m—”) and then he’s coming onto the hard-packed dust of the floor. A little on her chin, he wipes it away with a thumb.

“I love you, princess,” he says shakily as she rises to her feet. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” she says absently, touching his jaw with her fingertips.  _Too much_ , he thinks,  _it’s too much._ “I know.”

**..endor.**

It’s an old story. Older than the stars.

They stumble together in the frantic aftermath of Endor, giddy in their temporary immortality (the fear it wouldn’t still be there, come morning.) It’s easy, a story told a hundred times before, too much cheapshit ale and a beautiful girl he still doesn’t deserve, flushed and smiling, at him. Her hair falls around her shoulders like a veil, and through his hands like water, and they keep bumping into trees because neither of them is looking anywhere but the other.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly, pulling away for a moment. She makes a frustrated noise and he laughs. “No, hey, Leia. Listen.”

It takes a moment for either of them to hear anything but their rough breathing, Han’s pulse pounding too hard in his throat. Far-off is the music and laughter of the squadron, occasionally interrupted by the bark and howl of Ewoks, calling to one another through the trees.

Leia is a dark shape set against the green dim of the forest.

“What am I listening for?” she asks in a whisper, and he grins.

“It’s the sound of a Republic being born.”

Her laugh is low and throaty, and Han thinks wildly about licking it out of her mouth. “That has got to be your worse line yet, Solo.”

“Worse than—”

“Yeah,” Leia breathes, and the shadowy shape of her goes up onto its tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. She tastes of the dark, green and laughing. “Definitely worse.”

Later, she’s in his lap, pressing him down against his bunk, her hands wrapped around his wrists, pinning them just above his shoulders—she uses the leverage to rock up and down on his cock, pleasing herself just as she likes. It’s his turn to whimper, his breath catching whenever he remembers how important breathing is. He can press a kiss to the top of her head when she ducks down to graze her teeth over his nipples, the tip of her tongue tracing aurebesh he can’t read against his skin. She arches her back just  _so_ , and all his consciousness narrows to a singularity at the base of his cock. 

“Hey,” she murmurs, stroking his jaw with her thumb as he comes down. “Hey, Han, listen.”

“Yeah?” he asks lazily. “What am I listening for?”

She kisses him, slow and lingering and maybe reverent. Han’s already grinning when she pulls back.

“Heard that song before, Princess.”

“I know,” she says. “But I like singing it.”


End file.
